Liberty
by Nuyaviel
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is accused of attempting to murder Watson. On the run, he tries desperately to prove his innocence... and the only one who believes him is a girl from the twentyfirst century.


DISCLAIMER: No, I don't own any character or setting that you will recognize from the Sherlock Holmes stories and novels. They are all the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

A/N:  
I can't write a story about a character set in America. I just don't know enough about it. So my story begins in the Philippines, where I'm from, and I can actually write with authority.  
The characters speak in Tagalog, or Filipino, at first. But soon I'll automatically translate Filipino into English and just italicize them to show that the characters are still speaking in Filipino.

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**CHAPTER ONE**

(**_a hazard to society_**)

_March, 1905._

_Sir Arthur Conan Doyle sat in an armchair, and mulled over Sherlock Holmes. He had brought him to life through his stories, and when he had killed him in _The Final Problem_, he had discovered that Holmes was immortal. He could not be killed. Readers simply adored him. The queues and riots spawned by the adventures and death of Holmes in the Reichenbach falls were legendary._

_Sometimes, the writer wondered if Holmes wasn't real._

_He picked up his pen and put it to paper. Hm. He had just finished _The Second Stain_, and he intended it to be the last story he would ever write about Holmes, but readers were still asking for more. Perhaps it would be best if he killed John Watson instead. Who would record Holmes' adventures if the good doctor was dead?_

_An idea took shape in his mind. What if Holmes was accused of Watson's murder? Sherlock Holmes would go out with a bang. He was innocent, of course, but he would be his own last client. After that, Arthur Conan Doyle would not resurrect Holmes again._

_He started writing. This was a story he would never publish, but it belonged with the rest of the stories just the same. His mind wandered again to the idea that Sherlock Holmes had a life and world of his own. And Sir Arthur Conan Doyle entertained for a moment the idea that Holmes would exist without him, that Holmes would continue this plot even if his creator didn't._

_Then he dismissed his fanciful notions and stared down at the idea he had written. Holmes accused of murdering Watson._

_A foolish idea. He stood up and put aside his writings. He never wrote another word about the legendary Sherlock Holmes again._

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In the winter of 1898, Sherlock Holmes crouched behind a bush and waited in the frosty atmosphere. His eyes were keen, and he was edgy. Of course. It had been Rogers all along. Miss Katherine Sidney would be heartbroken, of course, but he was certain she'd get over it.

It was a most interesting case. The facts were simple:

The Lady Katherine wanted to elope, and it was a wonderful match. Unfortunately, she was the only one besides the groom who thought so. They had no other option but to elope, which they did. But Katherine came rushing back home on the very same day she got married -- her father had been found dead outside the door of her room. The safe in his study was unlocked, and the family jewels were missing. Based on the evidence, Katherine's father had died at her door while she was climbing down the window of her room on a makeshift rope of bedsheets. Her lover, James Rogers, had been waiting for her on the ground.

The cause of death was quickly established: two wounds on the head. Holmes discovered that he had been dealt the two mortal blows and left for dead in his study, a few doors down the hallway -- the victim had apparently tried to craw to his daughter's room, but bled to death before he could get to her. Holmes suspected that he had wanted to warn her.

But warn her against what?

Inspector Lestrade found a bloody rock in one of the maids' room. According to popular gossip, she had recently been cast off by Katherine's father after a few months of bedding her whenever he felt like it. That was motive. The maid tearfully claimed she had never seen the murder weapon before, but Lestrade dismissed her protestations of innocence and arrested her.

Holmes, however, wasn't so sure. If it was the maid, it didn't explain why Katherine's father had been trying to get to his daughter. And it reeked of a set-up. As he had told the Inspector succintly, "Who bashes an old lover on the head with a rock, twice, then leaves the rock lying on the floor in her room for anyone to see?"

"Maybe she was overwhelmed by what she had done, and got careless," said Inspector Lestrade.

"Or maybe," Holmes said dryly, "It wasn't her."

He himself suspected Katherine's lover, James Rogers. He searched for proof, and at last he found it. Now, waiting in the chilly winter night for Rogers to condemn himself, he brushed his hand over the lump of Watson's gun in his coat pocket and allowed himself a small smile. He relished the prospect of seeing the look on Inspector Lestrade's face when Holmes told him he could take the credit for uncovering a clever frame-up and arresting the real culprit.

Inspector Lestrade was supposed to be here. So was Watson, but an emergency patient had arrived at the doorstep, bleeding profusely from a wound on his arm. Watson had handed Holmes his gun and told him to go ahead while he tended his patient. The night's events could not be postponed, for Holmes' sensational case took precedence above all else.

Katherine's father was his Grace, the Duke of Roscoe, one of those nearest and dearest to the hearts of the Royal Family.

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"_Ikaw muna dito. Uupo lang ako sandali,_" Laya called to Kiko, the tall, lanky guy who had just started his shift. _Take the counter for a moment. I'll just sit down._

The door opened as a family of six entered, looking relieved to be entering the air-conditioned room. Outside, smoke billowed on the street and cars inched forward in the heavy traffic. At summertime, the heat was especially unbearable. Especially during lunch time.

She was exhausted. Laya Gonzales, a college student, worked during the summer at a fast food joint called Jollibee, because she needed the money. But that didn't mean she enjoyed her work. The only thing that got her through were her friendly coworkers and her thick new book. At least, it had been new when she first started working. Now it was frayed and stained with oil, ketchup, or iced tea in places. But at least she had something good to read.

"_Ayoko nga!_" Kiko sniffed delicately and shook his head. _No way._

"_Sige na… may utang ako sayo na favor. Marami akong kilala na guwapong lalaki_." Laya smiled sweetly. _Please… I'll owe you a favor. I know a lot of good-looking guys._

Kiko rolled his eyes, but he nodded. "_Okay, but hurry up. The last time you took a break, the manager caught you,_" he warned in Filipino.

"_But you got praised_," Laya teased. Kiko could spot a gay from a mile away, and his radar beeped when the manager was in the vicinity. She picked up her Sherlock Holmes book and went to sit in a corner, where she was visible from the counter. Nothing like sitting down with a good book, even if for just a moment, after a morning of customers who got pissed off if you took too long in preparing their order.

To her disappointment, she had barely turned a page of "The Adventure of Second Stain" when an old, thin man carrying a tray of fries sat down at her table, right in front of her.

Laya closed her book and looked up. "_There are a lot of other empty tables_," she pointed out.

The man ignored that. "_I eat here everyday, you know. I always see you reading that book. I'm a big fan of Sherlock Holmes myself._" The man's voice was rusty, as if he didn't talk to other people much.

He sounded like a stalker to Laya, but she shrugged and decided to humor him. He seemed harmless, and who knew, maybe she'd found someone she could discuss the Holmes stories with. "_I read a lot of books, but this summer, Sherlock Holmes is the only one I've been able to read, because I'm working. Actually, I'm done with it, I'm just rereading it. See?_" Laya held the book up._ "It's a collection of every short story and novelette written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle featuring Sherlock Holmes._" She warmed up, getting into the spirit of a discussion. "_Didn't you guess that Mary Sutherland's father was the culprit in _A Case of Identity?"

The old man seemed pleasantly surprised. "_Yes, it was so obvious. But I didn't guess anything in _The Man with the Twisted Lip_, even though it was the exact same thing._" Then he seemed to catch himself. "_But is it safe to say that you know a lot about that book? That you could enter it and not get into too much trouble?_"

Laya, thrown off, took a moment to answer. "_Uh, yes, I suppose. I don't forget stuff in books easily, if that's what you mean._"

That was when the old, wrinkled, stooped man in front of her leaned forward and told her very seriously that he had a machine which could transport her into the Sherlock Holmes book she was reading. Actually, not into the book but into the author's world, the world Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had created for Holmes and Watson.

Laya blinked, not sure whether to show confusion or astonishment. Finally, she just raised an eyebrow and looked at Kiko behind the counter. He was getting harassed with working two cash registers at the same time, and the customers were getting impatient. She turned back to the old man. "_You're saying that if you wanted, you could zap that kid over there reading Harry Potter into the book._"

He hesitated. "_It hasn't been tested. There might be a few glitches. I'd rather not send some kid into an unknown world._"

"Laya!" Kiko called from the counter as he placed a Coke on a customer's tray. He moved to the next register and smiled brightly at the next customer. "May I take your order?"

Laya stood up and picked up her Sherlock Holmes book. So much for someone to intelligently discuss the stories with. "_Sorry, sir, but I don't have time for this,_" she said. Switching to her professional voice, she added, "However, we have a special summer discount on the Jolly Ice Cream Cones. You might want to try it."

"_Never mind. I'll wait here for you, Laya._" The old man's eyes darted away from her nametag. He looked like he meant it.

Laya was alarmed. "_Sir, I'll probably be here all day._" Actually, her shift ended at three in the afternoon, but she didn't really believe in humoring strangers too much. She began walking towards the counter.

"_I'll wait,_" he called after her.

Kiko relinquished a cash register to Laya with an air of relief, and gave her a friendly snicker. "_Who was that? New boyfriend? I didn't know you liked older men. Hey, why don't you ask him if he knew your grandfather as a teenager?_"

"_I prefer mature men, but that old man has graduated from maturity. Actually, he was the father of one of _your_ boyfriends, asking me how he could kill you for corrupting his son. He struck me as a little bit of a homophobe,_" she shot back, relieved to be away from the strange little man. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ears and smiled efficiently at the next customer. "May I take your order?"

Kiko filled a plastic cup with ice cream. "_Is it my fault most of my boyfriends don't realize that they're gay until they meet me?_"

Laya placed a cheeseburger on the customer's tray and shot back some wiseass retort, but her eyes darted back to the old man in the corner. He was fidgeting with his fries.

Was he serious? Was he really going to wait all afternoon for her?

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Holmes' bait was simple: a handkerchief.

Rogers had killed two birds with one stone. He had avenged himself on the Duke for not thinking him good enough for his daughter, and he had gotten the money he and Katherine needed to start life anew in America. In spite of his capacity for murder, he did really seem to love Katherine. And now, only one thing could prove his guilt and make his beautiful young wife hate him forever.

Rogers had been waiting outside Katherine's window for her, an hour early in his eagerness. He was about to throw stones at her window when he saw the Duke in an open window, a few rooms away. The Duke was in the process of opening his safe. The opportunity was too good to miss -- he saw the thick, gnarled vines on the wall and started climbing. He managed to reach the study. He hit the Duke on the head with a rock, incapacitating him, and told him bitterly what he and Katherine were planning to do. Then he stole the jewels in the safe. Noticing that the Duke was still alive, he struck him again, and climbed back down. He then hurled the bloody rock inside another open window on the first floor, which by perfect coincidence happened to be the maid's.

This was what Holmes speculated. He also knew that Katherine had sworn she glanced out her window around five minutes before Rogers was due to arrive, and didn't see any sign of him. She said waited by the window until he arrived on the appointed time, smiling, and she smiled back. "If only I knew my father was nearing my door at that very moment!" she sobbed.

Inspector Lestrade asked Rogers for an alibi. He had been at home, he said, preparing his things. He was, after all, eloping. His sister had seen him. (Holmes thought Rogers had rushed home to hide the jewelry in his luggage, after killing the Duke, then rushed back to Katherine.) But Lestrade was satisfied, and asked only if Rogers had seen anything suspicious. "No," Rogers said.

"Of course," said Inspector Lestrade smartly, nodding. "He wouldn't see anything outside, since the murderess attacked from the inside."

Holmes thought the logic was convoluted, but knew it wouldn't be in anyone's interest to insult Lestrade's intelligence. So he had set about gathering evidence of his own. Holmes suspected that Rogers didn't realize that the Duke was clinging to life, and spending his last moments crawling towards Katherine's room in an attempt to warn his daughter about the man she planned to elope with.

After much reasoning and deduction, Holmes finally had a complete picture of what happened last night, and needed only a definite piece of evidence to prove it. Rogers would do that for himself when he appeared tonight.

Rogers had snagged a white handkerchief Katherine had given him onto the vines leading to the study on his way down, after the murder. A fresh coat of snow had fallen later that night, leaving the white handkerchief almost invisible. Holmes had discovered it, but kept the knowledge to himself.

The handkerchief was the damning piece of evidence. Katherine had embroidered her lover's name onto it.

Holmes had concealed the existence of the handkerchief from everyone except Watson, because he wanted Lestrade to see Rogers climbing up the vines to get it. Right now Rogers was inside the house, visiting with Katherine -- who was staying with her mother, the distraught Duchess of Roscoe -- and Holmes knew he had probably noticed that his handkerchief was missing by now. When he took leave of his wife and her mother tonight, he had to tie up the last remaining loose end, the single piece of evidence that pointed to him and not to the maid. He had to retrieve his handkerchief, and tonight. He had no choice.

Tomorrow morning, a ship was sailing to America. Roger and Katherine would be on it.

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"_I never thought you were a coward, Laya_," Kiko snickered. "_Your shift ended an hour ago. Are you still hiding from the dirty old man? Aren't you getting tired of the hamburger fumes?_"

Fine.

Laya threw Kiko a dirty glance, and stood up. He was right. She was getting tired of breathing in hamburger-soaked air. And she could only reread the Sherlock Holmes stories so many times.

But the old man seemed like a stalker to her. He had waited for her all afternoon; she doubted she would be able to shake him off that easily. Laya had thought she could wait him out. Apparently not.

But who was afraid of some arthritic little old man, right? Straightening, she brushed imaginary specks of dirt from her sleeveless white blouse, and emerged from the kitchen. Standing behind Kiko, who was still working, she grimaced at the old man toying with his empty container of fries.

Taking a deep breath, she started to leave. Kiko chuckled. She took a step back and tugged hard at the tip of Kiko's ear for good measure, making him wince in pain, then left the safety of the counter. She started to hurry towards the door.

The old man spotted her. He stood up quickly and started hurrying after her.

Laya barged outside just as a family of eight burst in. Didn't anyone believe in family planning? She all but shoved them out of her way, and when she made it outside, the heat crashed into her just as the old man did.

"_Laya,_" he said, taking her by the arm. "_I'm not going to hurt you_."

"_Please leave me alone, sir_," she said. Tugging her arm out of his grasp, she began to walk away.

"_Please just let me try,_" he said. "_Please_."

She heard the desperate note in his voice, saw the entreaty on his face, and in spite of herself she turned to face him. "_Surely you can find someone else willing to try your experiment."_

"_But I need a sensible person who likes the Sherlock Holmes books as much as I do._"

At that moment, Kiko stepped through the doors, apparently having seen her conversing with her stalker, and immediately put his arm protectively around Laya. "_Are you okay?_"

She rolled her eyes. "_If he had wanted to kill me, you'd be too late, you useless jerk. You goaded me into this, remember?_"

He snickered, ignoring her, and looked at the old man. "_So, sir, how's my ex-boyfriend – I mean, your son?_"

"_I don't have a son._"

"_He has a sick sense of humor,_" Laya explained to the confused old man.

"_Well, since you're still capable of insults, it appears to me that you can handle this very male man,_" Kiko said mildly as he turned to go back inside Jollibee, letting her know that his gay radar had remained silent.

"_I hope you know how gay you sound._"

The old man stared at the glass door as it closed behind Kiko. "_It's, uh, a painless process. I just aim the device at you while you hold the book and an object from this world that is also in the book._"

Laya sighed. On impulse, she decided to go along with it. "_Okay. As soon as you zap me and nothing happens, I want you to promise to leave me alone._"

The old man agreed readily. They moved to an empty space in the parking lot, where there was no respite from the heat. Laya was sweating heavily. It was so hot.

Laya put down her backpack and pulled out her Sherlock Holmes book. Then she looked around, and picked up a rock. Dryly she said, "_I'm sure there were rocks in the Victorian era._"

The old man laughed and pulled something from his pocket. It was a large oval hunk of metal, with two buttons on it, one black, one white. "_Hold on to the rock. When I zap you, you'll take the rock with you, but the book will remain behind. I'll zap you back in ten minutes. I just aim at the book. But you have to be holding that rock. Understand? Don't lose that rock. Don't let go of it. You have to be holding it when I zap you back to this world._"

Laya tried not to show how ridiculous she thought this whole thing was. Conversationally she said, "_Who are you, anyway?_"

"_I'm Tomas Bombera. Talk in English, and try to blend in. Can you do an English accent?_"

"_No. Hurry up._" By now Laya was getting tired of the charade, and tired of humoring him. Strange old men who claimed to have miracle zappers were a hazard to society. She stood behind her backpack on the ground and held out the book and the rock. "_Well?_"

Tomas Bombera pressed the black button. For a moment nothing happened, then Laya crumpled quickly into the book as it flopped down on the ground.

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This was it.

Sherlock Holmes rubbed his hands together. James Rogers was leaving the house.

In truth, the handkerchief alone was enough to prove Rogers guilty. Holmes could just have pointed out to Lestrade where it was, and Rogers was damned. But he was never averse to ceremony, and he owed Lestrade for acting like he had solved a case for once, that Holmes could not. And Rogers had been too cocky, too sure that he wouldn't be caught. Holmes remembered with a touch of annoyance the arrogant look on Rogers' face while he was being questioned.

Rogers began hoisting himself up the vine, carefully looking for the white handkerchief. He spotted it.

Holmes hoped Lestrade would show up right now. Preferably with Watson.

His wish wasn't granted.

At that moment, someone materialized behind him and for a moment seemed to be in shock. He heard a gasp. "_Putang ina_!" (A vile curse, one that doesn't merit translation.)

Holmes had no idea what was said. All he knew was, it had been said too noisily.

Rogers immediately jumped down, the handkerchief clutched in one hand. With the other he whipped a gun out, and shot at the bushes where they were. The bullet just missed both of them, sending bits of leaves and twigs flying.

Holmes hadn't planned on Rogers having his own gun. The shot was loud, but the walls of the Duke's mansion were thick, and it was possible Katherine and the Duchess hadn't heard a thing. So they wouldn't be calling for help. He was on his own. Except for the newcomer, but...

Still crouched, he tried to pull out Watson's pistol, but Rogers had spotted his movement. He pointed the gun at him. The newcomer shrieked and hurled what seemed suspiciously like a rock at Rogers. It bounced off his forehead and into the trees, at the exact moment that he pulled the trigger. His arm jerked up, and his shot missed. He cursed. By then Holmes had his own gun out, and he shot at Rogers. It didn't hit him, but it scared him sufficiently. Cursing again, he fled. In one hand he held his gun; in another, Katherine's handkerchief.

Holmes instantly gave chase, but it was no use. Rogers had a bicycle. He slowed down and stared bitterly after the man cycling hurriedly down the road. It was over. The arrest had been bungled up.

For a moment he clenched his fists, furious, then he heard the newcomer come to a halt, panting, beside him. She had been following him. "_What's going on?_"

At the incomprehensible words, Holmes glanced up sharply. He gave her a quick, comprehensive once-over. A woman of nondescript height, with wavy black hair cut in a ridiculously haphazard fashion and dark eyes that were just barely tilted. As she unconsciously reached up to flatten her messy hair back into some semblance of neatness, Holmes took note of her hands.

Holmes blinked, thrown momentarily off track. "Do we need an interpreter, madame? Other than the obvious facts that you have never been to England before, that you are Asian, and you are unmarried and fond of writing, I cannot deduce anything more."

Laya paused to collect herself and sort things out in her brain.

One, she was talking to Sherlock Holmes. Two, she had better aim than she thought. Three, it was unbelievably cold. And four, the zapper-remote-control thingy had actually worked.

Damn Tomas Bombero.

"Was that a rock you hurled at him?"

She shivered, her adrenaline running high – she had just been on the wrong end of a gun being fired – and started to speak in English. "It was self-defense. He was shooting at us. Are you Sherlock Holmes?"

Holmes frowned at her accent. Coldly he said, "You have the advantage, madame. I am Sherlock Holmes. And you are?"

Laya studied him curiously as she slowly stood up. He was a tall, lean man with aquiline features arranged in a decidedly arrogant expression, but his eyes were gray and piercing. He had no pipe, magnifying glass, jaunty cap, or tweed coat. Far from being nerdy, he was actually rather attractive, in a stern sort of way. "I'm Laya Gonzales."

"For the moment, I will not inquire as to what language you were speaking." Then, in a sudden movement that took Laya completely by surprise, he gripped her by the shoulders and shook her once, so hard that her head bobbled.

"Madame," he said, through gritted teeth, "You have just jeopardized an arrest. Because of your unwelcome intrusion into tonight's events, a murderer may go free. And the dead man will never be given justice, do you understand?"

For a moment Laya was stunned, then she reached up and wrested away from Holmes' grip on her shoulder. She half-stumbled backwards, seeking only to get some distance between them.

Her eyes were wide with anger. "What are you talking about? Listen, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, he had a gun, and he was using it. I just saved your worthless _life_."

At her own burst of temper, Holmes had calmed down, but he was still irate. "It was you he was shooting, madame, not me. You were the one who called his attention. I was concealed behind the bushes, and I had the intellect to keep silent."

"He didn't strike me as someone with very good aim. Maybe he was aiming at me, but as long as he was shooting, either one of us could have been hit," Laya shot back, but she was turning things over in her mind. Hm. Maybe the fact that the awful man shooting at them had gotten away was her fault. Holmes was glaring at her. She had never seen anyone so angry before. She muttered, "Yes, well, you still had no right to manhandle me."

Holmes looked disgusted. He turned away. "If you are visiting the residence of the Duchess of Roscoe, I would suggest you postpone your visit. They are in mourning."

"Who's the Duchess of Roscoe?" Laya asked without thinking.

He glanced sharply at her. "Perhaps you could accompany me to the rooms I share with my companion, Dr. Watson. Your name is decidedly Spanish, is it not, Miss Gonzales? You may grace us with an account of how you came to be here tonight. From your outfit, I deduce that you expected to find yourself in some warmer climate."

Laya watched him slip a handkerchief into his pocket. Score two for him. Her surname was Spanish – during the Spanish Occupation in the Philippines, which lasted for three centuries, the Spaniards had made all the Filipinos take Spanish surnames. And her sleeveless blouse had been practical in the tropical heat of Manila, but England was far from the equator and she was shivering.

_Putcha_, it was chilly. (Another vile curse that doesn't need to be translated.) Gradually she began to realize how cold it was.

"Was that a rock you hurled at him?" Holmes asked again.

Laya nodded, too busy thinking over what had just happened to remember the importance of her rock.

"Rocks," he remarked gravely, "may indeed be a hazard to society." Laya didn't understand what he was blabbering about, but it didn't matter. As he walked off, he ordered, "Follow me."

Laya debated briefly over the importance of pride versus curiosity, then she followed him.

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A/N: What do you think? I'll probably delete "Kahi Manawari," my old Sherlock Holmes fic, and steal scenes from that to use in this fic. Next chap Watson will be dead, or just seriously injured. I can't make up my mind. Please review!


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